


Gone (carried on burning wings, blown away by freezing winds)

by Valeska



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bonding, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, F/M, Ghost deserved more, Jon gets a dragon, R Plus L Equals J, Rhaegal needs some love, Season/Series 08, Sorry guys, as does Ghost, as does Jon, spoilers for up to 8x04, there's still no happy ending here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 17:12:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18815347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeska/pseuds/Valeska
Summary: When Rhaegal fell, Jon knew. He knew. He could feel it.





	Gone (carried on burning wings, blown away by freezing winds)

**Author's Note:**

> Heya! So, this is my first work in English, means I'm not a native speaker, and I have no beta. Any mistakes are therefore my own, even though I tried my best to find them.
> 
> Also somewhat important: This was written, before 8x05 aired... 
> 
> Have fun and leave me something nice on your way out ;)

When Rhaegal fell, Jon knew. He knew. He could feel it. 

 

-

 

When he sat astride the dragon’s back for the first time, when they flew together for the first time, it was a feeling Jon couldn’t have put a name to. It was elation and happiness and joy and – finally, even if only for a short amount of time, _finally_ – freedom, all mixed together. And even then it wasn’t enough to name the feeling that was born within him. 

He felt like he belonged. Right there, on Rhaegal‘s back, with his warm, scaly body under him, the smell of smoke and leather around him, the heat of a dragon’s fire upon him and the rest of the world so far beneath them, it was nothing more than a sea of white, he felt like, for the first time in his life, he really, _really_ belonged. 

When, later, after they landed and the adrenalin had faded and he could take his attention off the white and silver queen before him, he locked eyes with the green-scaled beast and allowed himself to be captured in that bronze-golden gaze, he got the feeling, the dragon understood. Understood the elation and happiness and joy and freedom and, most importantly, the belonging. And he wasn’t sure how to name the sensation, that bloomed inside of him, when he climbed back onto the dragon, when he let his hands wander over that strange, never before known, warm, hard skin, but he could have sworn, it was a sigh of contentment and satisfaction, that echoed through his mind. 

 

-

 

It wasn’t until after Sam told him the truth about his parents, about what and who exactly he was, that he began to really question that sensation. 

And when he went to Rhaegal, shortly before the battle, that would cost all of them so much, and looked into those bronze-golden eyes, put his hand onto a scaly nose and let it rest there, that sensation came back. And Jon began to understand, that it was much more than imagination, much more than warmth under his hands and the feeling of inhaling fire into his lungs, when standing before this creature. It was a connection, something, he imagined Daenarys having with all her dragons (but most prominently with Drogon), something that called to the Targaryen blood inside his veins, the fire inside of him, he hadn’t known about before. Something close to what he shared with Ghost, who always seemed to be a steady, silent presence in his mind. He always knew where the white direwolf was, sometimes even felt something like the wolf’s thoughts (if you could call an animal‘s instincts that) brushing against his, warning him, soothing him. 

But while his connection to Ghost seemed to have been born out of the ice and snow in the North, the satisfaction and excited agitation from Rhaegal ran hot through him. 

Jon wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that new connection, the dragon seemed to have breathed to life. After all, he still was Dany’s dragon, not his. He rode on his back only because Rhaegal allowed it and Dany trusted him enough to know, that he wouldn’t use it against her, that he wouldn’t hurt her child (although that trust now seemed to have cracked a bit after he had told her of his true parentage…). It hadn’t even been his conscious decision to form a kind of bond to Rhaegal. Was the Targaryen blood alone the reason for this? He couldn’t quite imagine, that every Targaryen could bond with any dragon just like that. And even if it was that easy, wasn’t Rhaegal already bound to Dany? She had birthed him and his brothers and they had stood together for many years, against many opponents. Didn’t that make Rhaegal her dragon as much as Drogon, even if she wasn’t riding on his back? What right did he have to take that away from her, when she had already lost one of her children because of him? 

The snout under his hand blew hot air into his face and the satisfaction curling through his mind changed to irritation and then to a kind of demand. Jon nearly flinched, when those feelings rushed through him in a way so unfamiliar to his own or even Ghost’s, and needed a moment to understand, that Rhaegal had reacted to his thoughts. He frowned.

"What are you trying to tell me?“, he mumbled and slid his hand upwards, caressing the wide bridge of the nose and then the beginning of a cheek. Once more hot air met his face. There was movement in the corner of his eye and a shadow fell upon him, when the green dragon lifted a wing, to put it down around him. Jon’s heartbeat had sped up and for a second he had thought, the dragon had now taken back his permission for Jon to come near him and would see it upon himself to remove him, then the mental equivalent of a chuckle met his mind, followed closely by renewed satisfaction and something that could have been glee. The second wing followed the first and then the large reptile curled his massive head and neck around Jon, to lay it down upon his folded wings. It took Jon a moment to get the picture of Rhaegal now relaxing in the snow, curled close around his own small form, before he let loose a disbelieving chuckle.

"You’ve got to be kidding me“, he snorted, but all he got from where his hand now rested on a neck as broad as the trunk of a weirewood tree, was, again, satisfaction and a sigh of contentment, followed by what could only be described as purring.

"What are you, an overgrown cat?“ Jon smiled uncertainly and stroked along that scaly neck, not quite able to accept a dragon acting like a domesticated pet. Rhaegal’s only answer was more purring, this time not only in Jon’s mind, but out loud, so he could feel the vibrations under his hand.

Jon thought about it for a few moments, then he sat on the ground between Rhaegal’s neck and his wing, right into the beginning of his shoulder, where the snow on the ground had been melted away and the mud had started to dry in response, probably, to some fire breathing when the dragon had settled down there earlier. Wing and neck curled into a tighter ball around him and soon he was surrounded by warmth and the vibrations of Rhaegal’s purring.  
Jon couldn’t help but keep smiling. It felt good. There really wasn’t anything that could make you feel more protected, than a dragon keeping you warm and, for a moment, shielding you from the world outside and from what was to come soon. Jon lifted a hand and absentmindedly started to pet the leathery skin of a wing.

"What are we doing here?“, he said, more to himself, but a spark of attention in his mind told him, Rhaegal was listening as well, "There is a war to be fought very soon, a war I‘m not sure we can win, even with your and your brother’s help. People will die, good people, friends, even family“, Jon shuddered at the thought of finding fierce, stubborn Arya dead or, even worse, undead, "And I’m sitting here, wondering on a bond with a dragon, that’s not mine to claim, that I have no right to take away from a queen who already feels threatened because of my heritage.“  
Again, irritation bloomed in his mind and he frowned.

"What is it you’re not agreeing to?“, he asked, leaning his head against the warm neck next to him. What followed in response was a feeling of yearning and belonging, so strong, it took his breath away.

"What?“, he wheezed and when he opened his eyes, not even having realized, he had closed them, a bronze-golden eye was lazily staring back at him. An unusually deep tone rumbled in Rhaegal’s chest and combined with the sigh, that echoed in his mind and sounded quite exasperated, it could nearly be taken for the equivalent of an eye roll.

"What?“, Jon repeated, not really being used, nor being thrilled to be looked down upon by a dragon like he was being especially stupid.

Rhaegal lifted his massive head from his wings, to breath hot air upon him once more, then he laid back down. It was the possessive feeling of ownership, that accompanied his tightening his ‚hold‘ around Jon, that finally clued him somewhat in.

Was Rhaegal trying to tell him, he belonged to him? That they belonged…together?

Jon sat, stunned, his breath once more taken from him. When the wing under his unmoving hand, shocked into stillness, twitched, he resumed his petting. He also took a deep breath, that quivered on it‘s way back out. Not knowing what he should say or think, he just continued to sit there, until a cry from above startled him out of his reverie and reminded him, that there was still a battle to be fought, a war to be won. Regretfully he left that cocoon of warmth and safety and belonging, but couldn’t stop himself from keeping a hand on Rhaegal’s neck after he, too, raised and they waited for Drogon and Daenerys to land.

Jon wasn’t sure what to make out of what the green dragon just revealed to him. But he was sure he loved the feeling of belonging he had, when the dragon was with him, and already longed to go back into his warm embrace, after only one look down onto the army of Dothraki, Unsullied, Free Folk and Northmen, that waited before the walls of Winterfell.

 

-

 

Jon, together with his queen and her dragons (their dragons?), stood and watched, when the first wave of their army rode to meet the Undead. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, when he recognized Ghost’s pale fur between the running horses, and begged all the gods he knew, to protect his friend and loyal companion. No matter the connection he found with the dragon, the direwolf was just as much a part of him as Rhaegal seemed to become. Even this far apart, Jon could still feel the anticipation and the fierceness running through the wolf’s body and his own body became tenser by the second, until the armies finally collided. He flinched, as pain exploded inside of him, and pressed his lips together, to prevent any sound from escaping, as Ghost’s pain continued to rush through him. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and apologized mentally to his companion, then he shoved the connection away from him, until he could no longer feel the pain. He couldn’t allow it to distract him, even though it also hurt to abandon his friend like that.  
He shoved that thought away as well and forced himself to concentrate on the battle and on finding the Night King, grabbing tight at Rhaegal’s spines and ducking low on his back.

 

-

 

He couldn’t quite believe it at first, when Viserion’s undead body crumbled into nothing but ice and snow before him, instead of roasting him with his blue flames. He couldn’t believe, that it really was over. That they had won. That the Night King… the Night King was dead.  
Aroung him, the people, who were still alive, stood as silent and unbelieving as he. Then there was a roar of victory echoing through the courtyard. It was repeated again and again, men with relief carved into their weary faces, falling into each other’s arms, patting shoulders, laughing, crying. 

Jon breathed deep and allowed his body to relax, sinking against the remains of a wall. 

 

-

 

Later, when he had found Bran and Sansa and Arya alive, when Daenerys had come back with tears on her cheeks and blood on her hands, when Ser Davos had begun rallying the survivors and handing out tasks, Jon turned his back on Winterfell and left into the upturned snow with hurried steps. The pain, that had reverberated through him during the battle, that he had forced himself to push as far from his mind as possible, came back into the forefront of his mind with an unstoppable ferocity, originating from two beings. He couldn’t pinpoint the location from which it came, but he still knew, where Rhaegal had crashed after Viserion’s attack, so he fought his way through dead bodies, most of them crumbled to snow and ice, to get back to where he had been hurled off his back. 

The dragon was still near that place, resting on his good side, one wing folded against the ground, the other stretched out, holes having been ripped into the leathery skin. 

"Rhaegal“, Jon breathed, nearly soundlessly. The dragon answered with a high-pitched wail and, now, that he allowed the sensation back into his mind, he could feel his relief at seeing the human, he had apparently chosen to be his.  
Jon didn’t stop, until he was right next to the massive head, and smoothed his hand over the green scales. Hot air was breathed into his face and with a choked laugh, he leaned his forehead onto the now familiar, warm, hard skin and reveled in the dragon’s heat, nearly clinging to him.  
He didn’t know, what to say, so he said nothing. Instead, he gathered the relief and gratitude, the leftover fear, that still shook him, the joy in his mind and sent it to the dragon. It was answered by the feeling of satisfaction and contentment, that was so very well-known to him, after all the times it had already been shown to him. 

Jon stood like that, until Rhaegal rumbled a deep tone in his chest and a nearly muted whimper sounded behind him. With a gasp, he turned and immediately found, what he desperately searched for with his eyes: Through the snow came Ghost’s white form, limping, fur covered in blood, making it difficult to see any injuries, and missing half an ear. Jon didn’t wait, until Ghost had reached him, but rushed over to his companion, dropping to his knees in front of him, so he could reach his arms around his neck and burrow his head into his fur, not caring, that the blood smeared all over his face and clothes. 

"You’re alive“, he whispered, "You’re alive, you survived, you’re well.“ Even though he had still felt his direwolf’s pain after the war had been won, he hadn’t dared hope, that he really made it through the crushing forces of the Night King’s army alive. But here he was, injured, hurting, sticky with blood, but alive, breathing, warm beneath his hands and as silent as ever.

It was quite a while, before Jon could make himself let go of Ghost and lean back onto his heels. He carefully brushed his hands through his white fur, searched for injuries under the coat of blood, caressing his face at last, avoiding the right side, were the wounds covered it. 

"You will heal“, he said silently, "You’ve endured so much at my side, you will survive this.“ Inside his mind, Ghost’s contentment blended into Rhaegal’s and the wolf licked his face with his warm, wet tongue, while the dragon crossed the distance, Jon had created by rushing to his friend’s side, and curled around the two of them, letting his hot breath wash over them in a silent sigh. 

 

-

 

Days passed by, the dead were gathered and burned, their victory was celebrated. Winterfell was slowly cleaned of the rubble and debris, that had been left in the wake of the Undead’s march. The injured were treated and either died or began to heal, the remaining men and women were counted. 

Ghost began to heal, as well as Rhaegal, slowly, not nearly fast enough for the impending war in the South. Jon watched over their recovery with a heavy heart, saw to it, that the direwolf took things easy, visited the dragon as often as possible on his perch, where he rested with his brother, talked to him softly. More often than not, he was accompanied by his queen at the latter. She, too, worried about her children, looking after them with motherly care and quiet words in Valyrian. 

Whenever Jon would sit by Rhaegal’s side and pet whatever part of him was nearest, listening to the purring rumble vibrating underneath his hands, she would watch over him with a look of doubtfulness and uncertainty, sometimes even a hint of suspicion and fear, that furrowed her brow and darkened her eyes. 

Things between them weren’t really good. Since he had told her of his heritage, they hadn’t spoken much, and she had hesitated in every gesture whenever they were together. Especially when she would come to the dragons‘ perch and find him already there, leaning into Rhaegal and caressing his skin, there was this dark look in her eyes, that he really didn’t like. Something like savage rage, diluted by possessiveness, flickered across her face, and sometimes he got the feeling, that only Rhaegal being obviously content with his position, stopped her from unleashing any sharp, reprimanding words (or worse). If he were any lesser man and not as worried about the (his) dragon, he would cease his visits up there, just to escape those looks and the awkward silence often ringing through the winter air. 

Jon really wished the both of them could go back to how things had been before, could go back to loving words and gentle gestures, to sharing smiles and warm looks and finding solace and love in each other’s arms.  
But he didn’t know what to do, to make things better between Dany and him, to mend, what had been broken, although he wanted to and knew, he really needed to. There was still one more war to be fought and the armies leaders‘ being at odds wasn’t going to help them win that war. 

 

-

 

Leaving Ghost behind was one of the most difficult decisions, Jon ever had to make. It hadn’t been easy to leave his home for the Night’s Watch, it hadn’t been easy to welcome the Free Folk through the wall despite his men’s open discontent and barely concealed rage. Leaving his long-time companion and friend, who had been at his side through so much, who he couldn’t think of anywhere else but by his side, seemed nearly impossible. He didn’t want to leave the direwolf. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in his bed with him and hide away from that stupid war.  
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t hide from what he had promised to fulfill and he couldn’t take Ghost with him, who still wasn’t healed enough to travel long distances, let alone fight battles. 

The evening before he would lead the troupes to King’s Landing was spent with his hands and face burrowed in his friend’s white fur, brushing trough the soft hair and letting the wolf lick away the tears he stubbornly tried to hold back. 

"I’m sorry“, he said, "I’m sorry. I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to leave at all. But I have to. And you cannot come with me.“ In his head echoed Ghost’s protesting whine and a desperate grasping at him, that was accompanied by his wolf pressing closer to his body. "I know“, Jon whispered, "I don’t want to. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.“

He didn’t loosen his grasp on the direwolf through the whole night, woke up with his face still partly pressed into white fur and with Ghost’s warm body still as near as possible. It took nearly half an hour, until Jon could make himself let go, and even that simple act seemed to break his heart. While he got ready, his companion remained on the bed, unmoving and without making a single sound, but in his head he could hear his continuous whimpering and every second of that felt like a knife stabbing him ( – he knew what those felt like, he knew what those hurt like, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt, unbearable pain, make it stop, let it stop hurting –). 

When he had said goodbye to Tormund, Sam, Gilly and Little Sam in the courtyard, he couldn’t do more than look at Ghost. He knew, if he were to go over and burrow his face once more into the soft fur, he wouldn’t be able to let go, would abandon all thoughts of promises and war and a complicated relationship with a queen, even of a green-scaled dragon, take Ghost and flee behind the Wall, where no one would hopefully ever find them again. To feel that white coat once more in his hands right then would break him into a thousand little pieces, that couldn’t possibly be fitted back together, and he couldn’t break. Not now. 

So he tore his eyes from his (no longer his) wolf, mounted his horse and rode from Winterfell, all the while biting back the cries, that wanted to leave him at the desperate wailing in his head. 

 

-

 

There had been no time to visit Rhaegal once more before he started his travel to King’s Landing. Jon had felt the calling in his mind, that had wanted him to go to the dragon’s side, but had been unable to give in. There had been much to do in preparation of the army’s journey, there had been the talk with his family and there had been Ghost (– pain, knives in his heart, it hurt, make it stop –), so there hadn’t been any time to go to him. 

He somewhat wished, he could have traveled on his back, knew it would have made the agony of leaving his friend behind to possibly never see him again somewhat bearable, but the dragon was still hurt. His wing hadn’t had enough time to heal, it was a feat, he even managed to somewhat steadily fly after his brother and mother, he wouldn’t have been able to carry Jon safely. 

During the ride, Jon tried his best to distract himself from any thoughts of his two bondmates, focussed his whole concentration on Ser Davos‘ words and was inwardly more than grateful for his talking to him nearly the whole day. He told him stories of his youth, of adventures and sights, and didn’t let Jon’s lack of response deter him. He seemed to sense, that something was burdening his chosen leader, but refrained from asking. 

At night, sleep didn’t come easily. Jon was restless under his furs, waking up searching with his hands, only to remember, that his companion wasn’t with him anymore, and fall back into a nightmare-plagued sleep. 

He held onto the thought of Rhaegal still being there, waiting for him at Dragonstone, thought of satisfaction and contentment curling in his mind. 

 

-

 

The unspeakable, inconceivably excruciating, crippling pain slammed into him like a giant’s foot, making him hunch over his horse’s neck, taking his breath away and punching a cry out of him at the same time.  
The agony, that flooded him, was too much to bear, let alone silently, and Jon couldn’t stop himself from crying out again and again, as it slammed into him in waves, reaching higher peaks every time.  
There were voices next to him, calling out to him, hands grabbing him, but he couldn’t concentrate on that, his mind was buried in the tormenting anguish crashing into it, tearing it apart at it’s seams. He had suffered through the deaths of his father and brother, damned to do nothing in retaliation, had been killed by his supposed brothers stabbing him in the heart, physically and mentally, had his younger brother shot down right before him, reaching with his hands, even as he hit the ground, had lost men and friends, fighting against a being, creating an army from corpses, had left behind his longest, most loved and cherished companion to never see him again, but nothing could compare to the racking pain wreaking in his mind right now. 

The worst part was, Jon knew. He knew, what it was. He knew, why that pain was wracking him, he knew, what was happening, could see it in flashes of light and color behind the lids of his closed eyes. Could see the ocean and red blood splattering in the air around him –

_mother, brother, protect, pain, hurts_

– could hear the scream of his _brother_ , could see the _water rushing_ ever closer – 

_over, pain, hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts, falling_

– the pain consumed him, robbed every rational thought from him, until all he could do was feel and all he could feel was agony – 

_falling, over, hurts, hurts… Jon, **Jon** –_

Jon was ripped away from the excruciating anguish as suddenly and violently, as it had been thrust into his mind, gasping, as he came to on the cold ground, with people standing around him, and the sudden absence from not only the pain, but _everything_ , was even more agonizing. 

Breathing heavily, with tears streaming down his face, he couldn’t help but cry out in anguish, curling onto his side and wrapping his arms around himself, shivering, pressing his face into the dirty snow, hoping it could somehow calm the rage and the pain of loss wreaking inside of him, stronger than ever before. 

Slowly, voices began to filter into his brain once more. He could make out Ser Davos and several of his Northmen, further away was someone translating for the Dothraki, but he didn’t care about that. He just gripped his own arms tight enough to hurt, wishing he wasn’t wearing gloves, so he could dig his nails into his flesh. 

"Jon? Jon! Can you hear me? Come on, boy, say something, we’re worrying here!“, said Davos, closest to him. But the only sound, Jon could make, when opening his mouth, were more cries of anguish and whimpers of loss, words were beyond his abilities at this moment. 

He didn’t know, how long he was lying there, suffering, begging the Gods to bring _him_ back, to fill the emptiness in his mind, where the bond had been ripped from him so violently, to stop the pain, to take him away too, because how could he go on with this pain?! 

After some time, his body and mind stopped being assaulted by new waves of pain (– loss, lost, _he_ was lost, gone, fallen –) and could start getting used to the steady amount, that was running through his veins like poison, burning, tearing him apart from the inside. 

And after some more time, he stopped his cries and whimpers, his tears dried cold on his cheeks, his hold on himself slackened, his shivering stopped and he just laid there, staring into nothing. 

"Jon?“ Ser Davos again. It seemed, that most of the people, who had been surrounding him, had gone away, and only few remained around his prone form. "Jon? Boy? Are you back with us?“ He blinked sluggishly, slowly focussing his gaze onto Davos and staring at him.

"C’mon, Jon, say something“, the older knight continued to try and coax some words out of him. 

"He’s gone“, he managed after a moment, his voice rough and rasping after all his screaming. Davos breathed deep, seemingly relieved to finally get a response, and put a hand on Jon’s shoulder, making him flinch and the old knight gentle his grip. 

"Who’s gone?“, he prompted softly, but Jon had already taken his eyes off him again and stared into nothing. 

"He’s gone“, he repeated after a while. 

 

-

 

Further north, a wolf threw back his head and howled.

**Author's Note:**

> All kinds of feedback will be very much appreciated! ^-^


End file.
